


Conclusions

by miasmatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:31:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John feels a bit under the weather, Sherlock jumps to conclusions. </p>
<p>Mindless fluff, and as such, it does have a happy ending. ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conclusions

"Look. Yes. Yes, I know this is serious, but- please, if you'd let me explain-"  
Sherlock woke from his torpor to the sound of an argument John was having, apparently over the phone. Whoever that was, on the other end of the line, he wasn't happy about what John had to say.  
"I'm not happy about the delay either. Yes, I know it's... it's my last chance. I am very aware of that."  
To this, Sherlock perked up, not totally unlike a shaggy crow.  
"Okay. Yes, quite. I can work with that. Okay. Thanks. Bye."  
Cracking one eye open, Sherlock saw John sit in his armchair, mobile pressed to his lips, his gaze somewhere else entirely, very far away. Curious, Sherlock thought, but returned to his case and the more interesting problems it posed.

The next day, John came home late. That in itself wasn't an anomaly, work at the clinic rarely meant dropping the pen (or stethoscope) at five. But this time, he had brought home what Sherlock could only describe as work - and that was unusual. Sherlock woke to the rustling sound of photocopied scientific publications being scattered around the kitchen table, then arranged in neat stacks. Usually, that table was reserved for Sherlock's experiments (and, rarely, food), and it seemed like the doctor was conducting his own research... Sherlock knew, theoretically, that John did research at the clinic, but he never brought any of it home. That was very much Sherlock's territory.  
It took Sherlock until nine in the evening to realize John had forgotten to prepare supper over his papers.

When John was off to work the next morning, Sherlock studied the publications John had brought home. There were exactly forty-three of them, and all of them case reports or clinical studies surrounding one topic: A certain type of leukaemia. Interesting, Sherlock thought. A type of blood cancer that was rare, deadly in adults (85 percent mortality), but survivable in children when treatable by chemotherapy. Sherlock forgot breakfast and lunch over his studies, fascinated by how the same disease could target people so differently, and by the effect chemotherapy had on them. That day, he didn't draw any conclusions from the flurry of publications littering their flat.

That night, John came home late and pale and went to bed early without even a piece of toast for dinner. Sherlock found he was hungry and went out, without John, which felt - different. He turned to speak to him several times and only encountered empty air, and for a moment, Sherlock wondered.

But then, the next day, a case came in, and he didn't think about anything but the case.

 

Sherlock came home, and John wasn't there. He listened for the small noises John made, the rustling of clothes, footsteps, here or in his bedroom above, but he simply - wasn't there. Sherlock frowned. He called John's mobile and heard it ring in his jacket. He'd been here, then. Now, John, where did you go... Sherlock could think of two places John would go without him and without his jacket, and one of them was a café right down the street.  
Sherlock was pretty pleased with himself because he excelled at sneaking up on John, but then, he also had to admit that John was easy prey, always focused on his fellow man instead of his surroundings, wasting all of his precious (and woefully limited) bandwidth on human interaction. And so Sherlock managed to get close enough to John (and even order tea and scones) without being noticed. Neither by him, nor by Harry, John's sister, who sat opposite John, nursing a cup of coffee with the desperation of the badly hungover.

"...not going to tell him. No. Out of the question."  
"But John, that's not a thing you can keep secret. Seriously. How will you-"  
"I'll manage", John said flatly, in a voice that would have stopped any argument from Sherlock, but didn't faze his little sister. Sherlock admired how much they were like Mycroft and him that way.  
"No you won't. Just tell him."  
"Tell Sherlock? Harry, you don't know him like I do. He'd probably-" John laughed, but it sounded more like a bark to Sherlock. Mirthless. Yes. That was the word.  
"He'd probably experiment on me."  
"Well, then let him."  
"You don't mean that."  
"Sorry, what?"  
"Harry."  
"Aw. My head hurts. Do you have an aspirin?"  
A long pause. Coffee was being consumed, looks were being exchanged. An entire childhood lurked there between those looks. Sherlock cringed.  
"Tell him", Harry said finally.  
"Can't."  
"You'll get worse pretty soon."  
"I know."  
"He'll notice."  
"He doesn't pay that much attention to me, Harry."  
At that, Harry threw back her head and laughed a laugh that was so raucous everyone (except Sherlock) at the café looked at her, exasperated. Sherlock chose that moment to beat a quick retreat.

On the way back, Sherlock's head ran with questions. John had a secret. From him. That wouldn't do. No matter what it was, and it seemed to be quite serious, he had a right to know. He had a right to know everything about John. Otherwise, how was he supposed to take care of him? What was he hiding? He made a mental list of ten, no, twelve possible explanations during those five minutes it took him to walk home. Back at the flat, Sherlock's eye caught the mass of scientific publications littering the apartment, and he narrowed it down to one.

Sherlock was scientist enough to recover quickly from that weird feeling of your bowels turning to water, of your blood converting to a supercooled state and freezing, numbing your mind and claiming your spirit, of wanting to howl and hit the wall and throw crockery. While he stood in the living room, staring at nothing, he filed it away as fear, rage, anger at a potential loss, interesting, painful, but not debilitating, not yet, and set to work. He didn't know, then, not quite. And he had to gather evidence before confronting John, proving once and for all that he did indeed pay attention to him.

When John returned to the flat a little while later, looking pale and drawn, and sat down heavily by the fire, Sherlock had activated several not quite legal apps on John's phone, tapped his laptop, and placed a bug in his room. Oh, and prepared a light dinner, suitable for the seriously ill, which John eyed suspiciously.  
"What's that for? Science?"  
"That's dinner, John."  
"You never make dinner."  
"I just did."  
John's eyes went wide, then narrowed. "It's not poisoned, is it?"  
"Poisoned? No! How can you - oh, come on. John. That was just that one time. You can't possibly still be angry."  
John sighed. "No offence, Sherlock, but I think I'll pass. I'll go to bed early."  
That he did, and left Sherlock with two cooling bowls of chicken soup and toast, which Sherlock found he couldn't eat either. He watched John take the stairs laboriously, the spring gone from his step, and tried to categorize the awful, cold, cramping sensation spreading from his stomach.

 

"I'm sorry, Aidan, but you'll have to take over from me. I won't be able to. I wish I could."  
"No, of course, I understand."  
Aidan, his colleague at the clinic, knew, Sherlock remembered. He sounded concerned.  
"I've prepared everything. You should be able to carry on without me."  
"Don't talk that way, John!" Aidan actually laughed. Sherlock found he liked him for that, another person with an inadequate response to grief. Just like him.  
"Seriously, John. You'll be fine."  
"I wish this was over already."  
"I can relate to that..."  
"No, you can't. Seriously. I swear. You cannot relate to this at all."  
Aidan laughed again. "No, and am I ever glad I don't."  
"God, but I hate to leave you with this... I know how serious it is, and I wish I could have seen him one last time."  
"Yeah... maybe you'll see him afterwards."  
"I'm not sure about that."  
"Yes. He'll probably - move on."  
There was a brief pause, and then Aidan asked: "Have you told Sherlock?"  
"No."  
"John!"  
"I don't want him to know."  
"He will, you know."  
"Not if I can help it."  
"Help is what you're gonna need, partner."  
A pause. Sherlock recognized it as the "Topic closed"-silence John sometimes tried to use on him to shut him up. Needless to say, it didn't work on Sherlock.  
"Call me if you need anything. Promise?"  
"Promise."  
"And John, don't worry. I've got you covered."  
"I know. Ade - everything is ready and on the server. Tell the team I wish I could have been there, will you? And...and say good-bye to him."  
"I will. I promise. You take care, John. You take care."  
"Thanks for everything. I appreciate it."

A click, and the line went dead. Sherlock heard John move around upstairs, shuffling around in his bedroom, then sitting down with a sigh, and then nothing. Silence. Sherlock wondered what John was thinking. If he thought about the future at all. About Sherlock, maybe. About what losing John would do to him. About a flat with a deserted upper bedroom, without cable-knit jumpers and sensible shoes. No-one to make tea for him or to tell him to get rid of mouldy experiments. Sherlock, alone, with no-one to rein in his stampeding brain. Meanwhile, something tickled his cheek, and he reached up, surprised to find a tear there. Then another one, and then, he clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. When he heard John clomp down the stairs, he hopped on the sofa, turned his tear-stained face to the wall, and pretended to sleep.

"Hey, Sherlock."  
He couldn't face him, not now, not like this.  
"Sherlock? You okay?"  
Okay? Sherlock okay? With John ill, probably terminally ill, he'd never be okay ever again.  
"Well. Right. Silent treatment. Okay. Fine. Look, I'll be off of work for a few days. Maybe a week. I'll pop down to the store to get some groceries, you need anything?"  
A week? So little time left? There was nothing Sherlock would ever need again, if John wasn't there to share it with him.  
"Nothing then I guess. See you later."

 

Sherlock hadn't slept at all when it started. He'd lain awake, unable even to read. He stared at the ceiling that separated him from John's room, wondering if John slept. It'd be unfair if John slept when Sherlock couldn't. Not that it had bothered Sherlock before, John usually slept more than he did. But this was different. And what hurt most wasn't that John was ill. What hurt the most was that he hadn't thought to tell him.

No. That wasn't true. John dying, that hurt the most.

He thought about doing what he usually did when sleep wouldn't come. Play the violin. Read. Experiment. Take a walk. It was unlikely that he'd find sleep tonight. He was about to get up and don his dressing gown when he heard John move upstairs. Sherlock lay still, listening, heard him take the stairs, heard him break into a run and smash into the bathroom door, heard retching, and a second later, he dashed out the door in a flurry of sheets and nearly tripped, stumbled into the bathroom and found John sprawled on the floor, shaking, sick all over himself and the bathroom floor.  
Sherlock didn't think, didn't even think about how unusual it was for him not to analyse this. He stooped down and propped John up against the bathtub. John waved feebly at him in a vain effort to shoo him off. "No, Sherlock, please, don't. Stay away."  
Sherlock chose to ignore that comment, wrangled John out of his soiled shirt, cleaned him up and produced a bucket from underneath the sink. "Sherlock, no. Please. Just - go. No. Please, don't - don't do that. I'll, I'll clean that off in a minute -" John said when Sherlock wiped the sick off John and then the floor. John was deathly pale and sat against the bath tub, clutching the bucket. His brow creased, and Sherlock deduced his body language fast enough to hold his head until the spell passed and John's stomach seemed to be empty.  
"Can you walk?"  
"Let me just - let me just sit here for a moment."  
"On the bathroom floor? Think again, John. You're clearly ill."  
John groaned, though with pain or at Sherlock's comment, he couldn't say. It didn't matter though. Without a word, Sherlock half carried him to his own bedroom and put him to bed. Only then, with John safe underneath the covers that were just a little bit whither than John himself, Sherlock sat down on the bed next to him and allowed himself to breathe.

"Oh, John", was all he said.  
"Your bed? Sherlock. There's something-"  
"Why didn't you tell me?"  
"Tell you what?"  
Still denial. Sherlock looked at John, clearly very sick, still keeping the truth from him. After all they'd done for each other, he still didn't trust him. Sherlock's mind reeled. John kept drifting away from him, turned into a stranger, someone who didn't trust him, didn't take for granted that he cared, that he'd do anything to... No, stop. He'd have to take a positive attitude, show him he'd be able to carry his weight and that of John in a crisis. He took a deep breath.  
"John. Listen. You'll have to fight. A fifteen percent change is better than nothing. We'll get you the best treatment money can buy. If we can't get it here, then Germany. The USA. I don't care. We'll ask - yes, we'll even ask Mycroft. Just, please, don't - don't die!"  
These last words he shouted, hurt and fear and loss bubbling up in him, blanking out any rational thought.  
"Die? Sherlock, what... Oh God. Bucket. Now."  
Empty was relative, John found out to his disadvantage as his stomach found some more fluid to get rid of.  
"John, time for games is over. Tell me. Now. What kind of chemotherapy did you get?"  
"Albendazole. But - oh no. You've been spying on me."  
Even sick as he was, deathly pale and sweaty, John managed to look reproachful, which Sherlock found so amazing that it reminded him of how much he would miss that.  
"I had to! You weren't going to tell me. Why weren't you going to tell me? This is serious! I have a right to know if my best friend is dying!" Sherlock didn't realize he had been shouting until he saw John, mouth agape, staring up at him in disbelief.  
"Dying? I'm not dying. At least I hope not."  
But Sherlock was already off on a tangent: "Wait, wait... Albendazole? But that's a benzimidazole. That's - anthelmintic. You have worms?"

John cringed, and Sherlock's view shifted - it wasn't just John any more, but also a gutload of parasites. "Nematodes, yes. Not proud of it, exactly. Should be all dead now though." A moment of awkward silence, then he added: "Told you to stay away."  
"Oh, but that's... that's..." Sherlock exploded off the bed, jumped, elated, then landed on the bed again, kneeling in front of John, clapping his hands. "Wonderful. That's absolutely fascinating. Which species is it? I need to-" he caught himself, remembering how John had dreaded experiments that involved him. Later, maybe, when John was asleep. "But - all those papers on leukaemia."  
"Professor Heinemann is retiring, and I was supposed to hold his laudatory speech. Leukaemia's his big topic. But my parasitic load was so high, and I felt so bad - decided to get treatment. Caught them in Egypt last month. Aidan has to hold the speech now. Poor sod."

Sherlock jumped up, dashed into the kitchen, unwilling to leave John for a minute, but he had to, he had to provide what John needed. Water. Yes. Water would be good. Maybe tea later when his stomach had calmed down. Was he in pain? He didn't think so, but he hadn't thought to ask John. Later. First, a pitcher and a glass of water.  
He returned to his bedroom with water and a glass and stopped in the door when he saw what he had done. There was John, his friend John, naked from the waist up, in Sherlock's bed. From all Sherlock knew of John's inner workings, he'd be mortified, he'd hate that situation. Well, that was simple, Sherlock had to convince John he was welcome to share. Make him see reason. It wasn't like there was much sense in climbing the stairs to his own bedroom, and the bathroom was closer to Sherlock's. Besides, it made it easier for Sherlock to watch over him. Sherlock realized he'd been standing in the doorway far longer than warranted. He also saw that John had his eyes closed and his head against the headboard. He slid closer and poured a glass of water, held it out, but John had his eyes closed, he didn't know Sherlock was there, holding a glass of water.  
"John", he said, and as usual, it was all that was needed. Such a simple name, but so many applications. He didn't have to tell him he was next to him, offering him water, all was needed was say his name. So efficient. So marvellously uncomplicated. John accepted the glass and drank thirstily.  
"More?"  
"Yes, please."  
"Are you in pain? I forgot to ask. I should have brought you pain medication from the kitchen. There is some in the cabinet, would you like an aspirin? Ibuprofen?"  
"No, no, thank you. It's pretty bearable."  
"I've never-" Sherlock stopped himself, unsure if what he was about to say was adequate, and then wondering when he'd begun to worry about adequate, so he started again: "I've never taken care of anyone. You'll have to let me know what to do."  
"Oh dear God", John said, "Sherlock Holmes wants nursing advice. I'm bloody well screwed."  
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't. There was nothing he could say to that, and that was unusual. He closed his mouth again and looked down at his hand clutching the ridiculous pitcher with ridiculous water that only an idiot would bring to a man who'd just thrown up, only someone with no idea at all-  
"Sherlock."  
He looked up at John and saw he wasn't a stranger at all, this was John, his John, who knew him so well he could deduce his intention from just his name.  
"Sherlock. Don't. Don't do that."  
Sherlock frowned and cocked his head.  
"Yes, that. It was a joke. I'm in your bed. Contaminating it with nematodes."  
"Nematodes can be killed using detergent and a 95 degrees Celsius wash cycle."  
"That's not the - oh God. Bucket, now."  
It wasn't really that hard, Sherlock thought as he was holding John's head while John threw up two glasses of water and mucus. On some instinctive level, he seemed to know what to do. It was easy, really. He held him up and provided leverage while John's body convulsed, heaved, getting rid of anything unwanted. When it was over, John lay back heavily against the headboard.  
"You really should lie down, John."  
"You're serious about this."  
"Do you think you can walk up to your room?"  
John's brow knitted, and he seemed to consider the alternatives for the first time. "...no."  
"I am serious. Stop fussing. Lie down. Relax. Get better." Sherlock racked his brain for something that would convince John and tried to hide his smile when he said: "You are of little use to me like this, you know. You should do everything you can to get better. Lie down, for example."  
John barked a laugh at that and looked up at him, eyes softer, what might be a smile easing the lines on his face. Laboriously, he eased down underneath the covers. Sherlock helped him down and tugged at the duvet until it looked comfortable, then climbed onto the bed next to him, keeping a respectful distance, and sat there, cross-legged. Glancing over at John, who frowned.  
"You just tucked me in. You actually tucked me in."  
"I adjusted your duvet."  
"You tucked me in."  
"And what if I did?"  
John seemed to think for a moment. "Thank you, I guess."  
"Are you comfortable?"  
"Depends. Are you going to sit there all night?"  
"Yes."  
"Seriously."  
"Yes, I am going to sit here all night. I'll make sure you don't choke on your own vomit. Or whatever it is people die of when they have worms."  
"I'm not going to die."  
"Of course not. I'll make sure you don't."  
"Sherlock..."  
"John. Please. Just this once, let me do this for you."  
John studied him. Like always, Sherlock felt weak underneath that gaze, defenceless. Ever since he had opted to let John into his life, he had had no defences against him. He didn't think John knew.  
"I'm sorry", John said, but he didn't get up to leave, he actually closed his eyes again, and from the way his head settled and his brow smoothed, Sherlock knew he'd given in, he'd relaxed. "You're doing well", John added, voice low and sleepy. "You're doing just fine." And just like that, John's presence was gone from this room, what was left was an ailing body, warm underneath the covers. Sherlock realized that this was the hardest part, that he'd been given a great gift and responsibility, and he felt as though tendrils of his own awareness engulfed that other body, extending beyond his own, feeling for signs of distress and pain. It should have felt daunting. But strangely, it felt warm and safe.

 

A phone call.  
"No, he's doing pretty well. I think. - Stopped vomiting last night. - Yes. I don't think that'll be necessary, but I'll keep that in mind. - Yes, doctor. Thank you. - Oh. Okay. I'll let him know."  
John woke to the thought that he had never heard Sherlock talk to someone on the phone this - patiently. It must be midday, the light filtering in through the blinds had a noon quality to it. John found he was filthy and sweaty and had a headache on top of everything, and with everything, he meant the dull, constant pain and the nausea as well as the rippling, acute pain passing through his gut. He'd known what to expect, he just hadn't expected it. He eyed the glass of water on the night-stand for a while before giving in and drinking, more carefully this time. After a few minutes, he thought it safe. It'd probably stay down. He lay back, listening for Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Sherlock had hung up, and Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to be home. He thought that he should probably head up to his own bedroom and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.  
The world immediately turned dark, and he hadn't even thought about walking yet. He clenched his teeth and tried to force his circulation back into working order, but instead, his headache worsened.  
"What are you doing there?" He also hadn't noticed the door had opened.  
John was too occupied breathing heavily to answer.  
"No. You're not going anywhere for a while. That is, if you need the bathroom..."  
John shook his head. He'd had enough bathroom for a while, and next time, he promised himself, he'd walk there without help.  
"Then lie down!"  
Reluctantly, John did just that. It was probably a good idea anyway. As he lay down, colour returned to his vision, and he saw Sherlock was mildly angry and carried a tray.  
"What's that?"  
"Chicken soup. Well, broth, actually. No solid parts in it. That is, if you think you can stomach solids, no pun intended, then I'll put them back in."  
Chicken broth. John was about to tell Sherlock he was trying too hard, but reconsidered. It did smell appetizing.  
"No, that's... that's nice. Broth is fine. Good."  
"Not poisoned."  
John looked up at Sherlock, who had set up the tray in front of him, just in time to see the smile play past his eyes.  
Sherlock watched John with amusement as he drank the broth, which anyone not living with Sherlock would find disconcerting, John thought.  
"Tastes great", John said, honestly. "Where did you learn that?"  
"There are about a hundred thousand recipes for chicken broth on the internet in the UK alone, which boggles the mind considering that it's just chicken, spices, and water after all. It's not exactly brain surgery. Although I had to figure out what to do with the internal organs they had stuffed back into the chicken. Inside a little plastic bag. Which is disgusting. Why not keep them where they belong in the first place? How do I know it's not some other chicken's kidney in there instead of the one I bought?"  
"Just a compliment, Sherlock."  
"Oh." And, after some processing: "Thank you."

When John had finished eating, Sherlock took the tray away and slid onto the bed, ending up sitting cross-legged next to John, not quite touching. John lay down again. This was actually quite nice, and he did feel better. The headache was receding. He'd just needed fluids.  
"Aidan says hello", Sherlock told him, "He just called. I'm sure you heard him. I'm to tell you the speech went very well. He told me to call him whenever you feel worse than this, which I think is pretty bad, but he told me this was to be expected."  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I-"  
"No need to feel sorry. I studied the side effects, and what you're going through is severe, but not especially rare."  
"I mean, for... this."  
"For what?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and darted across the room and John in his bed, obviously postulating and dismissing theories.  
"What I mean is..." John licked his lips. "I should have told you."  
"Oh. That. Yes. That's true." Sherlock looked down at John with an expression John rarely saw and had chosen not to think about too much. The one that made him look too young and vulnerable to face the world the way he did.  
"Oh, and", Sherlock produced a colour print of a vaguely familiar entity from the depths of his dressing gown. "Look at this. Do you know what this is?"  
John squinted at it.  
"This, John, is a dead nematode. One of yours."  
"Sherlock, you... you got this- from where...?"  
"Well, I thought there'd be a lot of them in your, you know, sputum. And I was right!"  
"You went through my vomit to get specimens?"  
"Well, when you say vomit... It's mainly water and mucus. And dead nematodes. But yes. I did."  
And he looked so genuinely pleased with himself that John couldn't help but smile. For science. "That's... that's actually impressive, Sherlock. Is that a female?"  
"Yes. I also acquired a male, but the staining isn't ready yet. I also thought I'd bring some to Barts for cryosections. I won't mention the source if you don't want to take credit for it. Do you want to take credit for it? No, I thought not. A shame. They're fascinating. So simple and yet so resourceful. Did you know that-"  
"You make great chicken broth, Sherlock."  
Sherlock beamed. Just for a brief moment, but John saw. And then he returned to his lecture about nematodes and parasites in general, and between the warmth of Sherlock's voice and that of the duvet, John dozed off, smiling.


End file.
